


The Dark Forces of the Devil's Hotel

by skittenninja



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crossover, Demons, Demons Are Assholes, Ghosts, Haunting, Injury, No Ship, Occult, Paranormal, Paranormal Investigators, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, haunted hotels are fun, there is violence but it won't be excessively graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittenninja/pseuds/skittenninja
Summary: Shane was a skeptic. Everyone knew that. Sure, he'd love for the paranormal to be scientifically proven, but that didn't mean he thought it was possible.Ryan was a believer. Everyone knew that. Sure, he'd love to actually capture paranormal evidence on camera and prove that he was right, but that didn't mean he wanted to die in the process.Enter Sam and Dean, a haunted hotel, some mysterious disappearances, and a demon with a nasty habit of eviscerating people.Suddenly, normalcy has gone out the window, which drags Shane and Ryan into the Winchesters' family business. And, as many people have found out the hard way, connections to the Winchesters aren't exactly good luck.





	1. Prologue

One.

He had one minute to hide, if even that.

Then it would be upon him, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.

He could hear the blood rushing in his head, thoughts swimming and heart pounding so fast he was certain it would outrun him. It'd leap out of his body, feet unable to keep up with its panicked pace, and he'd be left behind. Breathless.

That would be a much better way to die compared to whatever this... _thing_... had in store for him.

He cursed under his breath as his foot caught on the leg of a chair, costing him a couple of seconds and making far too much noise for the accident to go unnoticed. It would have a general idea of where he was now, thanks to the disturbance in the otherwise silent building.

Without thinking, he bolted down the remainder of the hallway and ducked into one of the many open doors. Room 1031. His eyes frantically scanned the room for a way out before they fell upon the old bookcase at the back, sending a wave of relief flooding throughout his body.

He was going to make it.

Finding the right book was second nature to him at this point, his hand instinctively reaching up to the red, leather spine near the top right corner. He held his breath as the entire shelf began to move, hoping the sound wouldn't be too loud. Thankfully, it wasn't, and the object moved almost noiselessly.

_He was going to make it._

The man slipped through the newly revealed doorway, moving the bookcase back into place as he began his short journey down the miniscule hallway. He didn't have to worry about being quiet anymore. The room was soundproof. He'd made sure of that.

Footsteps were muffled and breaths were stifled sobs, his whole body trembling as he arrived in the room and collapsed on the floor

Shaky.

Terrified.

Alone.

But alive.

He didn't dare let his relief show just yet, as he'd always been a believer in not speaking too soon. But still, he couldn't bring himself to supress the smile that was creeping its way onto his face.

He'd made it. He was safe.

"Aw, you have such an adorable smile."

His head snapped up at the sound of those words, the voice speaking them sounding hauntingly familiar, yet strangely foreign.

"No," he muttered, backing away from the figure in front of him. "No no no. Arthur, I-,"

The figure cut him off. "I think you know that I am not Arthur. Though, I will admit, he does serve as a good vessel."

The thing that was once his friend grinned, its countenance making it even more of a stranger. Its face was cruel and unkind, so unlike the soft timidity Arthur usually expressed. _Used_ to express. Because although this creature was wearing his friend like some sort of horrific suit, it wasn't him. It never would be.

He stood slowly, mustering every ounce of courage he could for what he was about to do. The book he'd left on the chair nearby caught his eye, and he reached out his arm to grab it, gripping its surface so tightly his knuckles turned white. As calmly as he could, he flipped open the pages to the one he'd bookmarked.

"Get out of my friend, devil. Exorcizamus te omnis immundus-,"

But he never got to finish.

An invisible force knocked him backwards, catapulting him across the room and into the wall. A sharp crack was heard from somewhere near his ribs.

"I would apologize for this," the thing said, sauntering towards its injured captive. "But that would be dishonest, and I have grown quite tired of the charades at this point. Do you not agree?"

He could only let out a small whimper, the cracking sound having given way to a burning pain in his chest.

"I believe you do!" It said with far too much enthusiasm in its voice. Whatever sinister plots were hidden behind that fiendish smile were apparently exciting to this creature.

Which spelled doom for his new victim.

It blinked, opening its eyes to reveal pools of nightmarish darkness.

The smile vanished from its face.

"I look forward to reuniting with you in hell."


	2. The Witching Hour's Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The catalyst.

_Cold._

_It was very, very cold._

_That was the first thing Ryan noticed._

_The air was so icy it felt like it was burning his skin, his lungs protesting at the chill they had to endure every time he inhaled. In front of him, he could see his breath, little wisps of steam barely visible in the poor lighting._

_Ryan tried to look around but couldn't find much. Only dusty and decrepit remains of furniture accompanied him, wherever it was he was standing, as well the dying rays of the sun that peaked through the single window. The lost, forgotten vibe that this place gave off felt creepy and dangerous, as if there was unfinished business here. It seemed that he was alone, and yet Ryan couldn't help but feel watched. Stared at._

_Something else was here with him, and it wanted something. But what either of those somethings were, Ryan didn't know._

_The sudden sound of muffled voices drew Ryan's attention away from the eerie scenery, their sources audibly behind him. Turning around, Ryan found a door, which was as old and rickety as everything else in the room. However, unlike the rest of the space, the door was the only thing that still held vibrant colour. Its surface was coated in a peeling, cherry-red paint, the brightness of the pigment screaming for attention. A strange symbol was drawn over top of it in black, every line precise and neat. If Ryan didn't know any better, he would've guessed that someone had used some kind of stencil to draw it._

_"Ryan?" A voiced called from the other side of the closed exit. It was significantly louder and more distinct than before, standing out from the other ones that were conversing in the background. Whoever it was had gotten closer, so much so that Ryan recognized their voice as being extremely familiar._

_"Shane?" He called back, taking tentative steps towards the door._

_He reached out towards the handle, hoping to leave the creepy-ass room behind._

_Only for a man to appear in front of him._

_Ryan immediately yelped and jumped back, completely unprepared for a full-on person to just magically teleport in front of the door. Although, after looking at him, Ryan began to suspect this wasn't actually a person. Not a living one, at least._

_The figure was a man with long, dark hair and dark eyes to match. His clothes were tattered and torn, rips and broken pockets scattered across his pants and heavy coat. Given a passing glance, he would've seemed normal, if a bit haggard._

_But that was where the normalcy stopped._

_His skin was wrong. That was the only way Ryan could think to describe it. He was quite tanned, and yet he seemed pale at the same time. Translucent. Like half of his molecules had been left somewhere else. Those dark eyes were wrong, too. Bloodshot and almost manic, they stared at Ryan keenly, as if he were the figure's sole focus._

_And then there were the deep red stains across his clothes that Ryan knew couldn't be from food or paint. Not with the rips that they surrounded._

_"Who... who are you?" He managed to stammer. He wasn't sure how he'd even managed to talk, to be frank, as his heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to escape through his throat._

_The man said nothing, and instead took a step forward._

_Ryan completely froze, unable to step away. He desperately wanted to put as much space between himself and the apparition as possible, but his legs wouldn't cooperate, threatening to give out at any moment._

_"You shouldn't be here," the figure muttered in a scratchy, horrifying voice. "He wants you dead."_

_Before Ryan could react, the world around him shifted and turned. The man disappeared in a flash, as did the weathered furniture, occult-like door, and the faint voices from the other side. The normal flow of time seemed to have been interrupted, making way for sporadic images and jumps that made his head spin._

_First it was a hallway, with light bulbs that were flickering dangerously, threatening to blow out. The pungent smell of rotten eggs was in the air, so strong it was hard to breathe._

_In a second it changed again, showing Ryan the spine of a leathery, red book on a shelf, and the cover of another one. On the second book's surface was what looked like a variation of a pentagram, with added symbols that made it seem even more ominous._

_There was a car, too. Black and sleek with a large trunk. It looked like an older model, though Ryan had no idea what kind it was or what year it was from. Two men stood beside it, staring at something he couldn't see. He tried to remember their faces, but everything moved too fast. All he got a glimpse of was the shotgun one of them held._

_Then everything snapped into focus again, the whirlwind of images slowing down. He was in a small, stone-walled room, various symbols etched into every surface. Red stains marked much of the space, the chaos of their organization starkly contrasting the deliberate placing and drawing of the symbols._

_Suddenly, black smoke filled the room, coming from a source unknown. Ryan tried to move, but couldn't, and was forced to stare at the sinister cloud as it got closer and closer, heading straight for him. There was something dark and menacing within that... thing... and the last thing he wanted was to be this close to it. But it kept drawing near in a painfully slow manner, as if enjoying the terror Ryan was currently feeling, before it got close enough for him to breathe it in and-_

Ryan sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, the horrible taste of the nightmare smoke still on his tongue. It took him a moment to adjust to his surroundings again, as although he was physically in his room, his mind was still stuck in the satanic, stone prison.

He drew a couple of shaky breaths, each one gradually growing steadier, in order to slow his panicked heart and thoughts. His hands were trembling slightly, so he gripped the covers in order to give them an anchor.

It was just a nightmare. That was all. A hyper-realistic, disturbing nightmare, but a nightmare, nonetheless.

Ryan sighed and lay back down, hoping to forget the images his brain had decided to show him. He'd had dreams like that before, sure, especially after staying in particularly creepy places. But this... this was different. It felt real. _Too_ _real_. Like he'd actually been there. Normally the details of a dream become fuzzy almost as soon as you wake up, but that wasn't the case this time. Every detail was crisp and focused, defined and sharp. A movie burned in his mind.

Ryan brushed it off as a side-effect from researching their next location. He'd been looking into a haunted hotel that also happened to double as their demonic episode of the season. And Ryan _hated_ the demon episodes. Going into those places always made him nervous, no matter how many times they did it. This wouldn't be the first instance of too much digging online mixed with paranoia that ended in lost sleep.

A glance over at the clock told him it was 3am. The witching hour. A sense of dread settled in Ryan's stomach when he saw it, but he refused to acknowledge it.

It was just a nightmare.

And it was just a coincidence.

With difficulty, Ryan fell back asleep again, believing the strange dream would be an afterthought by morning.

It wasn't

* * *

"I still think if you're going to bring holy water, you might as well bring two water guns and dual wield."

"I know you're just fucking with me right now, but I'm still taking that advice."

Ryan was sat at his desk, chair positioned away from his computer and towards Shane, who was standing in front of him. Originally, Ryan had wanted to run something by him about the location of their next shoot for Unsolved, but Shane had derailed the discussion after finding out it dealt with demons.

"Plus, I can give you one," Ryan said.

Shane laughed. "Thanks, but I'm demon-proof."

"Yeah, until one decides to take you up on your offer of getting your internal organs rearranged."

"And I welcome whatever 'entity' that lives in that place to try it. You wanna bet on this?"

"I'm not betting on the possibility of you getting murdered by a demon!" Ryan exclaimed, although he was unable to supress a laugh.

"Because you know you'll lose."

"Or because I'm not hoping that you're going to die."

"Really?" Shane asked jokingly.

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Anyways, back to this. The current owner of this hotel asked us if we wanted to stay the night. You up for that?"

Shane shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, considering the notion for a moment.

"Sure, as long as it's uh, somewhat liveable."

"Apparently, it's in surprisingly good shape. I think I've got pictures somewhere..."

Ryan turned back to his computer and switched to a file he'd opened up a little while ago. Shane moved closer and crouched slightly to get a view of the screen, where various pictures of a rather lavish hotel's interior could be seen.

"Woah, you didn't tell me this place was actually _nice_!"

"Only one part of the building, though. The other half fell into disrepair after one owner neglected it."

"So he was literally too lazy to tend to the whole thing and thought 'meh, I'll just do half.'"

"It was more so the caretakers he hired to help, but yeah. They were all really bad at their jobs."

Shane laughed. "Wow. This place is a real charmer. But I'm still happy at least some of it isn't growing, like...seven undiscovered species of mould."

"Wait until I tell you about the actual reasons we're going here."

"I can already guarantee I won't believe any of them." Shane pulled out his phone before Ryan could argue, reading whatever had popped up and pushing in his chair, indicating that he was about to leave.

"Gotta go film a thing," he explained. "But let 'em know we'll gladly stay the night."

"Gladly isn't the word I'd use."

"I disagree, considering how often you put yourself through this," Shane said over his shoulder as he walked away. He was out of earshot before Ryan could utter a retort.

Shaking his head, Ryan turned back towards the tab that was open on his computer. He still had some loose ends to tie up for the voice over, and a couple of points about the building he'd been meaning to clarify with the current tenant, and he had to get all of that sorted out before they went to visit the site in a couple of days.

Switching from the file with the pictures, Ryan opened one of the many other tabs he'd set aside, with the task of checking for new mail in mind.

He found one from the person he'd been looking for immediately.

The present owner of the hotel and some of the lots next to it, Wanda Stravinsky, was a strange woman, to say the least. The way she wrote was odd, and her manner of speech seemed old and outdated, as if she had somehow missed the memo that English had changed quite a bit over the years. That or she was badly impersonating someone from the nineteenth century. It was a bit hard to tell.

She also came across as a bit reclusive, as when Ryan had suggested they meet in person or asked if she wanted someone with them at the hotel (to make sure they didn't set it on fire or anything), she'd politely but abruptly dismissed the idea. The most Ryan, Devon, or any of the crew had seen of her was the pixelated picture that her computer's webcam had provided over Skype.

Even still, Wanda seemed like a nice enough woman, and she was incredibly elated that they were looking into the hotel. Her only remaining concerns were some of the safety issues in the hotel, and then they'd be set to visit it.

_Good Afternoon,_

_The hotel is not in operating condition, but it is usually sound enough to stay the night. If you desire to sleep there, I would advise doing so on the first floor in hallway C. This section is in the best condition. The fourth and top floor is the only one completely incapable of supporting weight, so the third floor is still an option. However, as I have mentioned before, it would be best to stay out of the eastern wing. It fell into disrepair a long time ago and I do not believe that section is safe to walk around in. The interior of the building has been divided with tape or paint as guidelines._

_The attachment I have provided below is a floor plan of the hotel, which I have drawn upon in order to outline the safe areas. There are a couple of additional images in there as well I thought you might find useful._

_I shan't be attending the investigation, as I have some personal matters I need to arbitrate in, but I have an assistant who will be around to check up on you around 1 o’clock. His name is Austin Bishop._

_Additionally, there is another room I neglected to mention, and that is room 1031. The commotion reported in this room during the hotel's prime was just one of the catalysts that lead to its downfall, as there were suspected cult activities that took place here that allegedly 'opened the door to another world.' I did not include it in my prior emails due to the fact that I was not certain of the room's present condition, but Austin has informed me that it is safe to enter._

_Regards,_

_Wanda Stravinsky_

Again, Ryan really couldn't quite place why her sentence structure seemed so off. He didn't think he'd ever heard someone use the word 'shan't' in a serious manner, and since this was an email regarding business, he found it highly unlikely she was joking. So, this was a first.

Trying to brush off Wanda's odd diction, Ryan opened up the images she'd sent. The floorplan mentioned in her email was actually very detailed, with a colour-coded legend off to the side and a series of notes from various infrastructure departments included on a separate page.

But the other images, the ones she'd vaguely hinted might be 'useful,' were what made his heart drop.

Naturally, he'd assumed she'd meant they'd be useful for graphics and such when they eventually edited the episode, but all thoughts of potential visuals for the narration were gone from Ryan's mind when the familiarity of the images struck him like a blow to the face.

The first picture was of a long hallway, which in and of itself was completely normal. Except it seemed to be the exact same hallway from Ryan's dream, minus all the flickering lights. He couldn't be entirely sure, as the hallway was very plain and didn't have much in terms of decoration, but the resemblance was unsettling, nonetheless.

The second was of a random room somewhere in the hotel, which was again all too familiar. The decrepit furniture and single window were exactly as he'd seen them while dreaming, every single object in exactly the same place. The only thing that bothered him was that the photo seemed to be taken from just in front of the doorway, meaning the actual door itself wasn't in frame and instead at the photographer's back. This meant that the defining feature of that room, its red door with the occult symbols, wasn't present. However, it didn't really matter either way, because the rest of the room was an exact copy of its nightmare counterpart.

Ryan switched over to look at the other photos he had, hoping desperately that there were at least some resembling the ones he'd just received, but found nothing. The other picture focused mainly on the defining aspects of the hotel, with scenic shots of its once-grand entrance and other such features. None had anything to do with the random hallway and room, meaning this was the first time Ryan had ever seen them.

So how the hell had he dreamed about them the night before?

He brought up the email and its attachments again, flipping through the remaining seven photos. To Ryan's relief, they weren't familiar. Or rather, they weren't that same kind of chilling and impossible familiar that the first two were, but were instead just more of what he'd already seen. Pictures of ordinary rooms from back in the day, the garden shot from different angles, the kitchen before its expansion, and other completely normal things.

With a sigh of relief, Ryan stopped looking through the pictures, absolutely certain that there was nothing else to them.

Ryan wanted to believe that maybe some part of his brain had just generated that room and hallway after looking at the other pictures so frequently for the episode, but the likelihood of that was extremely low. The details were too precise, and there was no way he could've accidentally predicted how the room would look down to every specific piece of furniture.

Ryan resolved to not tell anyone about it, though, because he honestly didn't know how to explain it. And, despite how impossible it seemed, anyone he told would brush it off as a coincidence.

He wished he could do the same.

But the images from his dream kept nagging at him, settling in his mind like the dread that was beginning to settle in his stomach. He couldn't brush them off, couldn't ignore them, could only hope that maybe they wouldn't freak him out so much if enough time passed or if he found a good enough distraction.

As he switched tasks to get his mind off of the strange event, a headache began to form near Ryan's temples, most likely from the worry all of this was causing.

He had a bad feeling about this.


	3. On The Highway To Hell's Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discovery.

Dean hated mornings.

Especially mornings filled with burning the remains of a very angry set of ghosts.

Granted, ghost hunts were normally fine. Besides the normal amount of life-threatening danger, every step in the process usually went smoothly. Ghosts weren't too hard to get rid of.

But combined with the smell of decaying bodies and the fact that he'd eaten breakfast a little too quickly, Dean wasn't finding this as easy as he normally did.

"Dean! Behind you!"

Dean only had seconds to react, turning around to face the ghost of a vehemently vengeful man with missing teeth.

Just as the spirit reached its ethereal hand forwards, towards Dean's chest, he swung the iron bar he'd been holding. With a scream, the ghost vanished, dissipating at the touch of the metal. Dean knew it would be back, but next time, he might not be fast enough.

"What's the hold up? Toothless is getting grabby over here," he called back to Sam, moving closer to the dug-up grave his brother was standing in. The spirit would probably realize his remains were being tampered with any second and decide to target the other Winchester.

"The casket... it's stuck," Sam stammered, desperately attempting to open the ornate box before him. "The lock won't budge."

Dean jumped into the grave and crouched in front of the coffin, examining what had halted Sam's progress and finding that there was indeed a lock loosely holding the lid shut. It was old, with flakes of rust from water damage and bits of mud from its time underground caked across its surface. And yet, such features didn't create a dilapidated appearance. Instead, the intricate details carved into the pale, gold metal distracted from the scars of time and made the object seem fantastical.

Magical.

Which it probably was.

"You recognize any of these symbols?" Dean asked, racking his brain for any familiarity the carvings might bring. He came up empty.

"Some of them..." Sam muttered absentmindedly, staring at the lock so intently it was as if he was trying to take it apart with his eyes. "The rest are just bizarre. I'd need time to be able to open it."

It was at that moment that their ghostly friend decided to reappear, this time with his girlfriend. Both gave a toothless hiss at the brothers, bearing matching grimaces on their faces. Dean swore these ghosts were deliberately waiting to appear at exactly the right moment every time they popped up again, because their knack for interruption was truly impeccable.

Sam was the one to play defense this time, which was probably for the best, as he had moved closer to the edge of the grave and could exit it the quickest. He picked up a crowbar that was resting by the edge of the hole as he got up, jumping to ground level and slashing at the ghosts in one fluid motion. He hit the guy, who vanished with a scream even angrier than his previous one, but the girl disappeared voluntarily before the iron could force her to against her will. Sam held his stance, methodically checking his surroundings before one of their opponents decided to make a move.

Dean brought his attention back to the coffin, hoping a ghost wouldn't decide to attack him while his back was turned.

"Did you try just burning the whole thing?" He called, grabbing hold of the lock and beginning to pull on it as hard as he could.

"It was the second thing I tried," Sam replied. Dean heard a female scream and the sound of metal hitting stone. "Didn't work."

"Damn it," Dean swore quietly. Out of options, he looked at the tools left scattered across newly-upturned dirt along the edges of the grave, hoping something would spark inspiration.

It was the feeling of the firm metal in his hand that did it. Quickly, Dean assessed the width of the bar and how high to lock could potentially allow the lid to lift.

After deciding it was enough, Dean opened the lid as far as possible with its restraint still on and wedged the bar in. He could hear the groaning of the metal as the lock tried to hold, but there was an unexpected sound along with that. A soft hissing emanated from within the coffin, as if the lifeless corpse inside was trying to whisper a message to the world he hadn't seen in decades. Dean's eyes were drawn to a dim golden light pouring out from the lock, which grew brighter and brighter the more force he exerted into keeping the lid open. The engraved warding was trying its best to protect its cache, but Dean had figure out a loophole.

Shifting his weight, Dean tried to keep the gap open with the bar using solely his right hand and reached into his pocket. He felt his fingers graze a familiar shape, and, knowing it was his lighter, Dean retrieved it. With one flick, he lit it, then tossed it through the narrow opening and into the coffin.

Bright flames of orange and red erupted in front of him, and Dean heard an ear-piercing scream from somewhere to his right. The lock's glow grew to match the intensity of the flames, shuddering and producing sparks as if confused by the fact that something had managed to get the thing it was protecting.

Burning hot tendrils reached out towards him, like the fingers of the damned. Dean pushed away what it grimly reminded him of and swiftly climbed out of the grave, just in case the contained but fiery destruction reached him.

Footsteps and ragged breaths approached, and Dean turned to face their source. Sam was now close to him again, though he was in much worse shape than he'd been in mere minutes before. There was a gash across his head and a long cut across his arm. His gait was also stiff and erratic, indicating that walking caused him pain.

"Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said, clutching at his injured arm. "He knocked me against one of the headstones. Winded me."

It seemed to be a struggle for Sam to speak at the moment, so Dean resolved to ask him about it later.

"I took care of Miss Toothless, though," he managed to get out. "Same lock on her casket, too."

"Weird. Did it keep it shut all the way, or could you open the lid a bit?" 

The two had started to pick up any scattered tools that were lying around, putting them back in the duffel bag they'd brought over. It wasn't long before they started moving back in the direction of the Impala in sync, the routine after hunts second-nature to them at this point.

"I could open it. That's how I got the lighter in. Was it the same for the guy?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Seems like whoever made those locks was either a scammer or really bad at their job."

"Maybe," Sam considered, taking off his jacket to properly examine the gash on his arm. It was shallow. "Or they knew exactly what they were doing."

"They made bad locks on purpose? Because that still makes them a con."

"What? No, what I mean is that I don't think they were trying to keep other people out. I think they were trying to keep something in."

Dean considered it for a moment. It wouldn't be the first time they'd seen something like this, and it would explain the crappy locks, but the fact that the two ghosts had just been waltzing around put a dent in that theory.

"Well, they did a bang-up job on that, then," Dean remarked sarcastically. By that point, they had reached the car. Dean popped open the trunk, lifting up the false carpet inside to reveal their collection of weapons. "Because his ghost was still top-side and attempting murder via tooth-pulling."

"Maybe it wasn't a ghost they were trying to keep in."

"Well, what were they trying to keep in? Zombies aren't really a common occurrence, and I can't think of anything else that would need a magic lock besides witches, since they like to resurrect themselves a lot."

"I guess we'll have to find out if either of them ever dabbled in the occult, or just anything shady in general. If they didn't, then I don't really know what to make of this."

After they'd put everything back, Dean closed the trunk, the sound of the action as familiar to him as his own name.

"Can we get something to eat first?"

"Dude, you just ate half an hour ago."

"Yeah, but half of a re-heated burrito at 5am combined with the smell of flambéed corpses didn't really sit well."

* * *

The eggs at the diner weren't actually that bad. Not the best Dean had ever had, but way better than he was expecting from this place. Especially considering the mystery stains that dotted the fabric of every booth like a greasy modern art piece.

Sam, of course, had gotten a smoothie, and seemed extremely cognisant of the fact that maybe that hadn't been the best idea.

"This doesn't even taste like fruit."

"Good. They spared you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm serious. I have no idea what they put in this but I'm questioning if it's even edible."

"Well, that's what you get for ordering fruit when the eggs were cheaper."

"Cheaper doesn't mean better."

"You're wrong in this case. I'm just saying, in a place like this, fried stuff is probably your best option. Not that you've ever managed to learn that so far."

"Yeah, well I'm not going to be the one dying of a high cholesterol induced heart attack."

Sam pulled out his laptop from the bag he'd brought in with him, resorting to research now that he'd given up on his failure of a smoothie.

Dean went to check his phone, only to find that there was no Wi-Fi. There wasn't even cell service.

"The connection's really bad in here," he started. "I don't think you'll be able to-"

"I already got in."

"What?!"

Sam turned the laptop to face Dean and, sure enough, he could see that his brother already had three tabs open and full bars of Wi-Fi. 

"How? How does this happen everywhere we go?"

"Just lucky I guess," Sam remarked with a sarcastic smile on his face. However, it quickly faded as he scanned through whatever articles he'd found,

Knowing not to disturb Sam while he was researching, Dean took the opportunity to look around the diner a bit more. Not that there was much to look at. 

The few staff members that were there looked exhausted and bored out of their skulls, as if they'd rather be anywhere but at work. Considering how there were no other customers, the walls were coated in a gross shade of mint green paint that looked like it had melted and then dried again, and the constant odd smell that Dean couldn't quite place, he didn't blame them.

Everything in the place screamed 'washed-up,' and the longer Dean looked at it, the more he wanted to leave. He had no doubts that this place would be closed down for health or safety reasons soon, and had he not been desperate for food and equipped with the knowledge that they were leaving town soon anyways, Dean would have avoided this place altogether.

"Okay, so you know how we found zilch on the Toothless Wonders the first time around?" Sam said suddenly.

"Yeah? If it hadn't been for that one lady who escaped them, we wouldn't have even known what they looked like or where to start."

"Get this: the guy's real name was Arthur Haddock, and the lady was his fiancée, Abigail Perry. Arthur was a suspect in a murder case way back in 1870."

"Huh. That's pretty serious stuff to be involved in. How didn't we find that out before?"

"Because, according to the sources I've found, Arthur was last seen the day of the murder. He was never found again afterwards."

"So he hightailed it to this small town to get away?"

"Yeah, but the thing is that the town he lived in before is only about an hour's drive away."

"Gotta love nineteenth century transportation and law-enforcement," Dean remarked. He couldn't help but think about how hunting would have gone a lot smoother back then, in those regards. It would have been so much easier for them to do their jobs and get out without hassle. Maybe he wouldn't have racked up so many murder charges if all law enforcement had to go off of was some shoddy detective's 'hunch.'

"No kidding. Doesn't seem like it was that hard for him to get away."

"And I guess that explains why no one in this town really knew who either of them were. They must've kept a really low-profile."

Sam sighed. "I dunno man, something feels off here. I think there's more to this then two lovers who got killed and wanted revenge, and I think it's got something to do with both the murder and the locks."

As unhappy as he was about it, Dean had begun to think the same thing. Things like that were never just coincidences, although it would be nice if they were for a change. Dean missed when their cases were just a simple salt-and-burn and not 'guy eats cats to gain their claws' or 'oops, Sam's a car now.'

"There's always something more, isn't there?" Dean said, voicing his grievances.

"I wish there wasn't."

"Well, where can we start? If we're gonna dig deeper on this, we're going to need more info on ol' Toothless Arthur."

"Since we've asked around town multiple times already and turned up nothing, it'd probably be a good idea to look into the murder Arthur was tied to."

"Find anything on it?"

"Unfortunately." Sam's face was sullen once again as he said this, eyes skimming over another upsetting article of some kind.

Dean frowned, not understanding how useful information could be unfortunate, but also not liking the troubled look that had come across his brother's face.

"What do you mean 'unfortunately?'"

"I mean that the place of the murder, the Rose Hotel, is allegedly haunted now. They call it 'the Devil's Hotel.'"

"Great," Dean grumbled, rolling his eyes. "So that's either a rumour started by a tourist trap, a local legend, or we've got some more ghosts to deal with."

"You can rule out that first option. The hotel closed down after the murder because the victim, Louis Rose, was the co-owner. You can probably guess who the other owner was."

"Arthur Haddock."

Sam nodded, and Dean knew why the police would have wanted to question Arthur. In all honesty, Dean was pretty sure he'd done it. There was motive there, what with Louis being the other owner _and_ having the establishment named after him. The potential greed or jealousy combined with the fact that Arthur left town the day of the murder didn't really paint him in a good light.

"There's a whole bunch of other stuff, too," Sam continued. "Reported cult activity in the hotel before it shut down, mysterious disappearances in the area..."

"Sounds fun," Dean said, placing cash on the table as he stood up. "Let's go."

Sam closed the laptop and followed him, the small staff of the restaurant not acknowledging their leave and the squeaky door serving as their only goodbye on the way out.

 _On the highway to Hell's Hotel_... Dean thought, knowing exactly what song he was going to play first on the drive to the next town over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates should be coming more frequently now, so you guys won't have to wait as long for the next part.  
> And holy hell, thank you all for the support so far! I didn't think this fic would get that much attention, and the response that it has gotten has completely blown me away.  
> If anyone has any feedback or criticism it would be very much appreciated, and thank you all so much for reading!


	4. Walking Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The warnings.

There's something about a parking lot at night that has the ability to put anyone on edge. It's one of those universally unnerving places, and everyone's seen it at some point in some horror movie or TV show. No one likes being alone, surrounded by vehicles that both obstruct your view of anyone who happens to be lurking around and that could potentially run you over.

It's the modernized version of walking back through the woods to your family cabin.

And Ryan was all-too aware of that at 9:20pm, alone in the desolate parking lot with only the sounds of traffic and his own footsteps to keep him company.

Granted, this wasn't the first time he'd been through this parking lot, and he was well-aware at this point that every single one of the brain's fears were not always rooted in truth.

But you can't always quell your fear, no matter how logically you think, and no matter how safe you appear to be. Familiarity doesn't always work to counter the fear of the unknown, and often times fear does not wait for a logical explanation.

So, Ryan was attempting to get across the parking lot and to his car as fast as he possibly could. Despite the odds being in his favour, and despite him having done this a million times, this was another instance where he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

He got halfway across the parking lot before another kind of familiarity occurred, and this one also did not make his situation any better. In fact, it made it worse.

A headache, forming around his temples, started to hit him out of nowhere. It coiled around his skull and sent pain rocketing through his head, a phantom serpent intent on crushing him.

Ryan instinctively paused for a moment, the pain in his head causing him to temporarily forget about his creepy surroundings. His hand automatically went to his head, as if that would somehow ease the pain, and he gritted his teeth as he waited for it to stop.

The same thing had happened the other day, just after he'd gotten that email from Mrs. Stravinsky, and it had been happening on-and-off ever since. Ryan wasn't sure why it was happening but had concluded that stress was probably the cause. That and perhaps a lack of sleep. He'd been having horrible nightmares ever since that day as well. Or rather, nightmare, because it was the exact same one every time. He'd be in the hotel they planned on visiting, hear voices in the hall, a ghost of some sort would appear, then he'd be bombarded with a bunch of random, short events before waking up in a cold sweat.

The last time something like this had happened was after they visited the Sallie House, and Ryan wasn't anxious to experience that aftermath all over again. Especially considering those dreams had stopped after he got blessed, and that he'd never been able to shake the idea that something had followed him home.

On the bright side, if getting blessed had worked last time, then maybe it would work this time as well. Maybe something had followed him again, or maybe he was just paranoid. They'd been going to a lot of haunted places lately, since they were filming for the next season, so either of those possibilities weren't unlikely to Ryan.

Without warning, the headache stopped. Ryan blinked and pulled his hand away, suddenly remembering that he was in the middle of a parking lot.

Attempting to brush it off for the moment, Ryan continued to hurry towards his car. The sense of unease the parking lot gave him had been lessened by the strange headache, which was now his brain's top priority. However, it was still difficult for Ryan to try and ignore both simultaneously.

Finally, he reached the car, sliding into the driver's seat with an exhale of relief. He wasn't entirely sure what he was relieved about, as there had never been any danger in the first place. He was just walking to his car after work, like always, even if it was a little later today. Despite this, it was a welcome feeling, nonetheless.

This was quickly ruined by the return of the mysterious headache, which came out of nowhere and hit Ryan like a sledgehammer to the skull.

His vision cut out completely as the pain fully set in, though it wouldn't have mattered anyways. Ryan closed his eyes in an attempt to brace himself a fraction of a second after it happened.

Then it started again. Little snippets of events started playing out before him, becoming the only thing he could actually see. Images and events danced before him. A whirlwind of colours, faces, flashes, and places, all moving too fast for Ryan to be able to determine if he recognized any of them. He was falling and floating, everywhere and nowhere, all at the same time, like reality itself had become untethered. Ryan was left with no anchor to keep him grounded, leaving him suspended in whatever it was that was happening.

 It was like a dream. One so vivid it hurt to experience; one so clear it was scary to witness.

Like the dream Ryan had been having over and over again. Except this time, he'd never fallen asleep.

And this time, the dream was different.

_There was a room. A new room. An unfamiliar room._

_There was no furniture, save for the skeletal remains of a shelf in the corner, empty of items and purpose._

_There were no exits, save for a strange door, its surface marred with long scratch marks and hulking locks that kept it shut._

_And there were no people, save for one person in the centre of the room, who was drawing an occult-looking symbol on the ground with an unknown black substance._

_Oddly enough, these details weren't the most unnerving part of the scene._

_No, the most unnerving part was that the person in the centre of the room was Ryan, meaning he was watching himself from a third-person perspective. He was merely a ghost in a situation he never should have been able to see from this angle. A situation he did not know about nor understand._

_As the other version of him kept drawing, each symbol crafted with far more skill and knowledge than Ryan knew he possessed, it began to occur to him that something seemed... off. One would expect seeing yourself move from this impossible perspective to undoubtedly elicit such a feeling, but something tugging at the back of Ryan's mind told him there was much more than that at work here._

_The way his doppelgänger moved wasn't right. There weren't words to describe it other than that if he hadn't been able to see this other version's face so clearly, he would have assumed that this was a completely different person from himself._

_And maybe that wasn't far from the truth._

_The other Ryan then stood up, having finished what he was drawing, and took a step back from his creation._

_On his face was a sinister smile, a cold grin that surveyed the markings on the floor with malicious glee. Ryan knew that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, that that couldn't be him, that he couldn't be capable of ever wearing such an expression, that there was no way in hell that any of this was possible-_

_There was no time to figure anything out, however, because Ryan could feel the dream start to shift again. Only just before it did, Ryan watched as the eyes of this other version of him darkened._

_In more ways than one._

_Then it all vanished, getting swept up in the untethered whirlwind once more. Ryan saw rapid images flash before him, these ones also different than the ones he'd seen before._

_A license plate reading 'CNK 80Q3,' attached to a car that Ryan couldn't quite see._

_Next was Shane, gripping Ryan's holy water pistol tightly in one hand. There was something in his other hand, but the image quickly shifted before Ryan got a good enough look at the object. It ended up as just a blur in his memory._

_The scene then changed to the front of the Rose Hotel. The way it was barely silhouetted by the full moon above it and the street light several yards away made it seem far more menacing than in any of the pictures Ryan had looked at. The place seemed almost alive in this light, a monster waiting to swallow anyone who dared walk through its doors. Parked in front of it were two cars. One Ryan recognized as the one they always took on investigations. The other one he had never actually seen before, and yet it seemed familiar all the same. Jet black, blending into the darkened scenery around it, and an older model._

_Everything vanished again, only this time nothing returned. It all just kept spinning and spinning, faster and faster, blur after blur after blur until-_

Ryan was back in his car again.

The fast pace of whatever it was that had just happened followed by it all coming to a screeching halt was enough to give a person whiplash, and it rendered Ryan in total stunned silence for a couple of moments. He didn't know what to think, didn't know how to react, didn't even understand what he'd just seen.

Then it hit him. All at once, it hit him.

"What the fuck..." he muttered absently, as it was the only exclamation he could muster. "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck-"

Ryan continued on like that, worried that if he stopped talking for even a moment he would begin to hyperventilate. The weight of what was happening to him was setting in and he could feel it crushing him, even if he couldn't quite exactly see what that weight was made of.

He’d just seen things. While he was awake. Things that hadn't happened and made no sense but were grounded enough in reality that they made Ryan fear for the future. Explanations surfaced in his brain at an all-too rapid speed, and none of them were good. Was it stress? Sleep deprivation? Or was he really losing it? What was he even supposed to do now, drive home? What if it happened again? Could he stop it?

Ryan didn't consciously decide to do what he did next. It was purely instinctive, a sign he was running on autopilot as his mind ran away from him, the way he started the car and drove out of the parking lot and into the night. Not any slower than usual, not any faster. Exactly the way he always did it, because a part of him knew if he didn't have something familiar to tether him to reality then he might just break down then and there.

So, Ryan drove, and he put off thinking about what he saw. He set aside that voice that was screaming at him to never set foot in that hotel. He refused to think about the worst possible outcomes that all of this could lead to.

And he tried to forget the sight of his own eyes turning black.

* * *

Shane thought the parking lot seemed rather peaceful at night.

Obviously, a cement area surrounded by cars in LA is never the best place to be, but it was far from the worst at this time of day. He'd decided to leave later than most people on this particular day, and the chilly breeze hanging in the night air was quite refreshing. He could hear cars passing by not too far away, the sound always present, no matter the hour. Somewhere else he could hear a group of people laughing loudly.

It seemed quite picturesque, in an unusual way. There was a sense that everything was as it should be, even during the darker corners of the day, and it created a warm sense of comfort.

Moments like these seemed untouchable, unable to be spoiled because no malevolent force would dare touch them. But every moment is just that: a moment.

And that peaceful moment, as all moments do, soon ended.

Shane started walking through the parking lot, which was a mundane routine at this point that he never spared much thought. It was the same parking lot he'd walked through countless times, after all. His footsteps echoed as he moved, the soft night around him seeming to amplify any sound he made by comparison. One foot after the other, in rhythmic succession, never faltering. With every step they seemed to get louder, even though Shane knew they weren't, and suddenly it was much more difficult to hear the sounds of traffic or of the gentle breeze or of the laughter of those people nearby. Suddenly it was just his footsteps, one after another, and nothing else. Just this steady unwavering sound in a night that had apparently begun to swallow every other noise whole, the sounds of shoes meeting asphalt the only thing able to cut through it. Echoing, repeating, drumming against the ground in a way that automatically drew the ear to it. So much so that Shane had been entirely unaware of his rising heart rate until it was racing, racing against his feet as they stepped in that rhythmic pattern across the parking lot.

It was then that Shane stopped, realizing that something was amiss. 

Why did he feel so nervous?

One quick scan around the parking lot told him that there was no one else near him, save for some people pulling out and driving off near the corner of the lot. The chatter and laughter from the group of people could be heard again, as well as the breeze and the traffic sounds. In an instant, the world came rushing back as the night relinquished its control, and Shane felt that worried feeling dissipate.

However, as he started walking again, he couldn't help but ruminate on why he'd felt so panicked out of nowhere. That wasn't really a common occurrence for him, and why that had suddenly changed was a mystery. He wasn't in any danger, and he wasn't even in a new place, so logically there was nothing to fear. There obviously was nothing behind him, creeping ever closer as he remained unaware, so why falter? He knew there was nothing in front of him that he should avoid, so why turn around? He knew there wasn't anyone hiding in his peripherals, just out of sight, waiting for the right moment, so why even check?

There was nothing and Shane knew this for a _fact_ and yet his heart was once again racing. His footsteps were far louder than they should be and everything else was far too quiet. And for whatever reason Shane couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, that there were eyes practically drilling into the back of his neck. That there was someone just behind him and if he didn't turn around right now, then-

Shane stopped abruptly, then turned around in the same fashion.

But there was no one there.

Shane sighed, both from relief and mild annoyance with himself.

This was stupid. There was no one there. There almost never was, because it would always end up just being a co-worker or a really lost drunk guy. 

There was no danger.

There was no reason to be scared. 

He shouldn't be scared.

But as Shane started to walk again, he found that for the first time he could remember, nothing he told himself made him feel any less scared. This was kind of a new situation for him, and to be frank, he was not enjoying the experience. It was like some part of his brain had decided to randomly kick into overdrive, and Shane could not figure out how to turn it off for the life of him. This only served to make him more concerned, because what was it about this specific time and place that had caused this? The only thing that made sense was that it didn't make sense at all, and the only thing Shane could do was spiral into further paranoia about what exactly was making the night seem so much deadlier than it truly was.

After what seemed like an eternity, Shane reached his car. 

He slid into the driver's seat, immediately locking the door as soon as he got in. The little clicking sound gave way to a feeling of relief within him, and he finally felt like he could breathe again. The car was safe, and he could leave if suddenly something happened. 

Instead of driving away, however, Shane sat there for a moment first. Trying to calm down and assess what was happening to him.

He didn't _get_ nervous like this. He just didn't, and he didn't want that to change. Shane knew this was exactly how Ryan felt whenever they investigated some old place, and had he actually been somewhere creepy then maybe he could chalk this up to Ryan's own fears making him nervous. It was a highly unlikely scenario, as the only things that made Shane uneasy on investigations were other living (and real) people or the worry that Ryan would pass out. But at least in that situation, Shane would have _something_ to use as a theory.

Instead, he was alone in a parking lot, getting scared by his own footsteps. Instead, he had no answers. And instead, he was for once not content with letting something remain a mystery.

Shane tried to push it to the back of his mind for the moment, knowing that dwelling on it any further wouldn't do him any good.

He started the car, about to push down the gas pedal.

But then he saw it.

Directly in front of him, several yards away, in an open parking space directly under a streetlight, was a person.

A person who had most certainly been there two seconds ago.

A person who was wearing plain jeans and a hood, cloaking their face in shadows.

A person who was clearly, despite that hood hiding their face, staring right at Shane

If it hadn't startled him so badly, Shane would have laughed. It was cartoonish, really. The way this person had positioned themselves under the streetlight for maximum dramatic lighting. The whole 'appearing out of nowhere' trick. The hood to hide their face.

For a brief moment after the shock wore off, Shane assumed it was a prank by someone. Who, he didn't know, as all the usual suspects left work before he did. But it had to be _someone_ he knew.

This notion was shattered as soon as the figure took their first step in Shane's direction, the dramatic menace walking towards his car at an extremely alarming pace.

Shane wasted no time on panic this time. He just pushed down on the gas pedal and left, the only thing on his mind being escaping whoever that creep was.

Shane pulled a sharp right turn to avoid driving right into the figure and started heading towards the parking lot exit, watching as the figure futilely ran after the vehicle before eventually disappearing, becoming swallowed up by the very shadows they seemed to have appeared from.

It was all Shane could think about for the rest of the drive.

He'd been in that parking lot numerous times. In that parking lot, he'd gotten in and out of countless cars, including Ubers and friends' cars. He'd walked there at night, and he'd walked there during the day, too. 

It was always perfectly mundane.

But on this night, for whatever reason, it was different. On this night, there was a person who wanted god knows what with him, a person who had seemingly come from nowhere and who had disappeared in the same way. 

Shane was no longer concerned with the unnecessary panic he'd felt when walking to the car.

Because only a couple of minutes later, that panic had become unfortunately and eerily necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another middle-of-the-night-update haha. Maybe someday I'll get a consistent update schedule.   
> In other news, thank you all so, so much for the comments, hits, and kudos! I'm so grateful for literally all of the support and feedback you guys have given me. It's incredibly heartwarming to see and genuinely makes my day.  
> I'll see you all in the next update, and as always, thank you for reading!


	5. Paper Towns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greeting.

Sam was tired.

This was typically a given. The hunting life meant that they often had to interrupt their sleep schedule to either save people from being killed or to avoid being killed themselves.

Additionally, Sam was no stranger to nightmares, and some nights he was willing to do anything to avoid them.

But today, he was more tired than usual, mostly because he was steeling himself for what they might find out about the Rose Hotel in its hometown, which they'd discovered was named Evergreen East.

Discovering there was something more to a case was like being asked to open up a can, a can that was either filled with worms or dynamite. Both were unconventional and unamusing. The former was unpleasant and maybe a bit jarring the first couple of times, but ultimately manageable. The latter, as one would assume, presented the danger of getting blown to smithereens. And more often than not it turned out to be the dynamite, because that's just how it is with the supernatural world. Death in places where death should never be.

One discovery, one choice, and suddenly you could be caught up in an all-out war.

Sam was hoping to avoid that this time. It was why he was feeling a little bit hesitant, because the world seemed to enjoy dancing on the precipice of annihilation.

He was too tired to deal with it falling again.

Still, a job is a job, and if that was what was going to happen then they couldn't just let it all come crashing down.

"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice cutting through Sam's thoughts.

His brother was peering at him curiously from the driver's seat. Well, doing so as best as anyone driving a car could.

"Yeah, just... thinking," he answered, not wanting to elaborate.

 _Better change the subject,_ he thought.

"You think we should call Cas about this one?"

"Depends on what we find. I texted him to let him and the kid know we won't be heading back to the bunker today. They're on a milk-run ghost hunt right now anyways, so I don't think they need any backup."

Sam wondered how Cas and Jack were doing with all that. Hopefully their case turned out a little simpler than theirs was shaping up to be.

The tall trees continued to fly by on the oddly empty road, and it was then Sam noticed they hadn't seen an actual building or man-made structure of any kind in quite some time. This was to be expected, as this single road leading to the town hadn't shown up on many maps. Nevertheless, there was something menacing about the towering trees, their branches reaching upwards towards the grayed sky like desperate, skeletal fingers. The woods they made up were dark, the kind of dark that seemed to border on natural and unnatural. Like you knew there had to be more than just plants in their somewhere, and yet you feel like you'd find something much worse than a bear if you entered.

Sam pulled the map out of his pocket, wincing as he did so. He'd forgotten about the wound on his arm (again), though at least this time it was bandaged, and he wasn't getting blood everywhere. Dean had just cleaned the inside of the Impala last week and Sam didn't want to know how he'd react to blood stains on his freshened-up pride and joy.

The map, which was yellowed and dotted with rips around the edges, was odd. It was odd because it was one of the only maps that actually had the town they were looking for on it. It was odd because it appeared to be an old map, with 'old' meaning around 200-years-old. It became even odder once Sam had realized that this map was some scribbles on paper their dad must have picked up in the middle of nowhere ages ago.

The overall image was blurry, as were the lines, which tended to run together in some places. There were a couple of places where it looked like there should have been a rip or a tear in the paper, but the paper itself was still intact, creating false holes. The date on the map also didn't match up with its design and quality. For example, there was printing around the supposed plate mark, which wasn't supposed to happen if this map was really as old as its 1817 date claimed it was. Another thing that was suspicious was the paper. When Sam had held it up to the light, he didn't see the grid in the paper that should occur with maps from that time. The absence of the chain links told him that this map wasn't made of handmade paper, like it should be.

In short, Sam knew it was a fake.

Which meant that Evergreen East, the town they needed to find, was probably a paper town.

"I still think this is strange," Sam mused out loud.

"The town?"

"Yeah. Paper towns aren't supposed to actually exist, they're deliberate fakes mapmakers use to expose forgeries. If Evergreen East really is a paper town, then I don't really know what we're going to find when we get there."

"Wouldn't be the first time we've walked in blind," Dean pointed out. "At least we know the hotel exists, even if its website was right and it's not in any town."

"That's another weird thing about this. The reports about the murder at the hotel refer to Evergreen East by name, meaning it had to have existed at some point. Then you look at all the modern sites about the hotel itself, and suddenly it's like the town never existed. Do you think it was a-”

"Please don't say Croatoan. That never ends well."

"I don't like the idea any more than you do, but it's looking more likely the more we look into this. We can't rule it out."

"Easy for you to say. You're immune," Dean joked.

Sam scoffed. "That's worse. I don't want to watch you die by demonic virus."

"What are we even going to do if it is a Croatoan virus again? We couldn't stop it the first time, and no one in that alternate future the angels sent me to knew how to stop it either."

"That's when we'll have to call Cas and Jack. The moment something Croatoan pops up, we get out of there and call them."

"No argument here. We're not trying that on our own again."

Dean fell silent after that. He'd gotten alarmingly good at hiding every emotion possible, but Sam could still tell he was thinking about that alternate future. He didn't like to talk about it, and from the little information Dean told him, Sam couldn't blame him.

He wasn't going to let his brother go through that again.

* * *

The case somehow got weirder.

As it turned out, Evergreen East was a real place, one with a welcome sign and all. As it also turned out, it was far too small to be a town. The sign indicating the population had told them there were only 186 people in Evergreen East, meaning the title of 'village' was a more accurate descriptor.

This was another odd thing to add to the ever-growing list. They hadn't been able to find any recent record of the village's existence, let alone its population. How were those 186 people virtually unaccounted for by the rest of the country?

This became an afterthought when Sam and Dean actually entered the main village itself.

There was a weird combination of architecture, as if a seven-year-old had designed it based on whatever mood they were in when they got to each building. Some were extremely modern and boxy, some had Victorian elements, some looked like suburban houses from the 50s, and some looked like they were being held together with duct tape and wishful thinking. Paint colours seemed to have no rhyme or reason, and Sam was certain every possible hue had been used when this place was constructed. Sometimes a building's colour would change mid-wall with no indication as to why. The roads were paved, but only halfway. This could mean two things: the asphalt would stop halfway down the road and the rest would just be dirt, or there would be asphalt all the way down a road, but only on one side.

To classify the village as an eyesore would be an understatement.

Sam didn't know what to make of it, and one glance at Dean told him he didn't either. They'd parked the Impala on the paved, right side of one of the main roads, but neither of them had moved to get out of the car yet.

"Okay, so either the village planners are literal children, or we've crossed into some alternate dimension of ugly real estate," Dean quipped, staring at a bar that was painted bright shades of yellow and green.

"The more I look at this place, the more I'm thinking it's probably a combination of the two," Sam replied.

He scanned the road for something useful, whether it be a sign, a building, or even a person. The lack of a village map, or any village information really, meant Sam was flying by the seat of his pants.

Something caught his eye farther down the road. It was styled to look like an old west saloon but painted a deep shade of blue with a golden trim. Sam would have to consider it the nicest-looking building in the village, even though it had a crude, crooked mural of a book on its front. The sign above the entrance, which Sam almost couldn't see from his angle, read "Evergreen's Encyclopedia." It was either an information centre, a library, or a bookstore, and Sam was willing to take any of those options.

"Check out that building down there. The blue one," Sam said.

"The strip club?" Dean responded with a confused laugh.

"Yeah, totally," Sam replied sarcastically. Why did a place this small even have a strip club? "That's _totally_ the first place we should check out here. I meant the blue building with the book on it, the one across the street."

Dean stared thoughtfully at it. "What's it supposed to be?"

"Not really sure, but probably something useful."

"Hopefully something useful. The less we have to see of this place, the better." 

Dean started the car and drove towards the building in question. Slowly, as to avoid dropping off the edge of the pavement and onto the dirt side of the road, thereby potentially damaging the car.

As he did so, Sam noticed something in the windows of one of the buildings. It was one of the suburban ones, a seemingly normal house on this incongruous road. There was a face in the aforementioned window, watching them go by with ravenous curiosity. As soon as the face noticed that Sam was looking back, it hastily drew a set of dense curtains closed, quickly enough that Sam didn't even get a good look at the figure's features.

That certainly didn't bode well.

Sam was shaken from his thoughts on this encounter by the sound of Dean getting out of the car. Sam, unable to brush the image of that face from his mind, followed suit, resolving to tell Dean about it when they weren't in public. That window had left him with the feeling that they were being monitored somehow, and Sam knew it was always safer to mistrust your surroundings than to let your guard down.

Through the saloon-style doors, they entered into a small room of shelves. Shelves that were absolutely crammed with either books or assorted trinkets that looked haunted.

The two stood at the entrance for a while, taking in the organized mess. Sam still couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. There were papers and maps and dusty lights that hung at a height that made it clear the designer did not take 6'4" people into account.

There was also a taxidermy raven two inches away from Sam's face. So, that was certainly something.

"Hello there!" A voice called from the back of the store. Moving slightly to the left (only slightly as to avoid the raven's beak), Sam could see an old man. He was sitting at a grand oak desk in the far corner, his workspace seeming to be the only tidy thing about the place.

"Don't mind old Poe," he continued, vaguely gesturing at the raven. "He's my little guardian."

Sam couldn't help but laugh at the on-the-nose name, causing Dean to roll his eyes.

"God, you're a nerd."

Sam wanted to point out that Dean getting the Poe reference also made him a bit of a nerd, but his brother was already moving towards the old man's desk before he could say anything.

"Nice place you got here," Dean said. Sam knew he wasn't serious, but it didn't hurt to be polite.

"Oh, why thank you!" The old man exclaimed, his smile being just wide enough that looking at him directly made Sam feel unsettled. "Been running this place since I was eighteen. My father did it before me, and his father before him."

"So, you've been here a while?" Sam questioned, hoping to transition to some inquiries about the village.

"Sure have! Nice to see some new faces around. Are you two just passing through?"

"Actually," Dean corrected, "We heard about a hotel somewhere around here. The Rose Hotel?"

Sam swore he saw the man's expression falter for a moment, his smile morphing into a snarl as his eyes tried to hide some unidentifiable emotion. Just as quickly as it happened, it was gone, and the man continued on like nothing had happened.

"I'm terribly sorry, but that hotel's been closed for many years now," he informed them. "Where'd you find out about it?"

The last question sounded accusatory, although Sam didn't know if it actually was or if he was just on edge due to the man's sudden shift in mood only a moment before.

"Our great-grandparents told us about it," Sam jumped in. "We didn't know them long, but when we were little, they told us some family stories about how some family members had stayed there for a summer. We were on a road-trip when the name popped up on an old map and we thought we'd check it out."

It wasn't the best story he'd come up with, but it certainly wasn't the worst. At least it wasn't like the time they had to turn Jack into a dog.

"That's lovely," the old man commented, his words so saccharine it wouldn’t be surprising if he could taste them. He seemed placated by their explanation. 

He stood up suddenly. "Where are my manners? I didn't even introduce myself! The name's Austin Bishop. Pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Jimmy," Dean said, sticking his hand out so Austin could shake it. "This is my brother Justin."

Of course Dean would give him that name. Sam gets brainwashed into a weird 50s cult town by some mind-control witch guy  _one time_  and he never hears the end of it.

He decided he was giving Dean the ridiculous bikini-inspector badge next time they needed a cover-up.

Sam shook Austin's hand before clearing his throat, intending on returning to the matter at hand. "Whatever happened to the hotel? Our grandparents mentioned some scandal, but they never mentioned it closing down because of it."

"Scandal?" Austin shook his head. "I'm afraid it was a bit worse than that. There was a murder at the old Rose Hotel a hundred odd years ago."

"A murder?" Dean prompted, acting as if he was surprised.

"And a sad one at that. One of the hotel founders, Louis Rose, was the victim. It's a shame they never did find the killer."

"Not even a lead? Or a suspect?" Sam asked.

"They never released that information to the public," Austin replied, narrowing his eyes at Sam, who could see that he was crossing into suspicious territory. Sam knew it was best to not mention how that contradicted what little coverage they found online. "There'd been talk of some hooligans making trouble at the hotel a little before all that went down, but to tell you the truth, I don't believe any of it."

"Well, even quiet places like this one have trouble sometimes," Dean commented.

"Sometimes, yes, but it's never anything big. Not like they were suggesting."

Sam wanted to ask him more about the 'trouble' at the hotel, but the man spoke up before he could.

"Ah, enough from me. I'm sure you didn't come in here for some old man to give you a history lesson. What can I do you for?"

"Well, we just wanted to learn about the village's history, and this seemed like the place to be," Sam said. "Do you have any books on Evergreen East?"

"Not many anymore," Austin replied morosely. "There was a huge fire that destroyed most buildings here about six years ago. A lot of my collection got destroyed. But I still have a couple of books in the back! Would newspapers work too?"

"Those'll do great, thanks," Dean said with a forced smile.

Austin gave them another wide grin before walking around the desk and exiting through a door between two shelves. 

They were alone.

"You think that's why all the buildings look so weird?" Dean asked.

"Because of the fire?"

"Yeah, maybe they just hastily put stuff together afterwards. He said most of the village was destroyed. They might have just thrown together whatever worked as quickly as possible, so people didn't have to go months without homes."

Sam considered it. "Maybe. Something about all of this just feels deliberately weird, though. I think they could have rebuilt the place normally; they just didn't care to. Who's to say it didn't look something like this before?"

"Fair enough.”

There was a lull in the conversation, which Sam used as an opportunity to look closely at the contents on Austin's desk. There wasn't much to look at, really, save for some books with no titles and a framed map off to the side. There was a hammer lying next to the map, as well as some nails, meaning Austin must have been planning to hang it up sometime soon.

That should have been all there was to say about it, but Sam noticed how familiar the map's layout looked, how some of the stains and rips seemed to be in just the right places. 

He walked closer to it, peering over the desk to look for a certain date on the bottom right-hand corner that would confirm his suspicions.

_October 6th, 1817._

This was the map they'd used to get here. Or rather, the original one, seeing as they had a counterfeit. 

Austin had the right one. And someone out there, for whatever reason, had copied it.

Suddenly, Austin happily burst into the room again, humming a nonsensical tune as he went. Sam jumped slightly at the sudden noise, surprised at how eerily fast Austin had completed the task, and instinctively backed away from the desk.

"Here you are," Austin said, handing them two books each and giving Sam a couple of newspapers. "This is just the basic stuff. If you need anything else, let me know!"

"Thank you. But don't we need a card, or do you want us to pay for-" Sam started.

But Austin was already walking back towards the door he'd just come from, and he shut it behind him before Sam could finish his sentence.

"I guess we just keep these for a bit, then," Dean said with a shrug, already moving towards the exit.

Sam, however, let his eyes wander back over to the map on the desk. It made sense that the original was in the village, but the fact that it was the exact same map, and that they just happened to come across it almost as soon as they got here was bothering him. Serendipity was rarely kind, and he didn't like how often it was rearing its head as of late.

"You coming?" He heard Dean's voice call from near the entrance.

Sam blinked, tearing his gaze away from the map.

"Yeah, just looking at something."

He followed Dean out the door.

But he swore he heard another one close suddenly somewhere far behind him.


End file.
